Variations on a Theme
by dysprositos
Summary: Bruce was lonely, but he didn't know it.


Warnings: vague and fleeting reference to suicidal ideation, sap.

My beta, irite, is ten kinds of awesome.

So, today marks the 6-month anniversary of my first post to ffn. I like to celebrate, so let's celebrate with some kind-of Christmas-inspired, sappy Bruce!

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

Bruce was lonely, but he didn't know it.

Since 2006, his personal relationships had kind of fallen by the wayside, and 'kind of' was really a euphemism for 'entirely.' Being on the run wasn't actually conducive to friendships (or any kind of relationship), and neither was his tendency to turn into a giant green rage monster and smash entire neighborhoods. These things, Bruce accepted—reluctantly, at first, but with more conviction later, as the death toll started rising.

He had to accept a lot of things, really. And a lot of it was hard to swallow. Some of it nearly shattered him in the process—being a monster, being alone, being alive in a world that would be better off without him. Being alive despite his best efforts, apparently destined to stay that way until some act of God saw fit to snuff out his existence.

The thing with Betty in 2010 just served to highlight what should have been obvious by then: he was going to spend the rest of his life—however damnably long that might be (and that was something over which he held no control)—alone.

It tore at him, but despairing, he knew, was about as futile as everything else he could do. So by 2012, he didn't think about it. In fact, he had completely ceased to acknowledge that there was a part of him that wanted—desperately—to connect with another person.

There was no point in wanting something you could never have, after all.

* * *

Bruce was lonely, but he wouldn't admit it.

He'd never expected to be part of a team, had never expected that anyone would actually _welcome _him. Not after they knew what he was, what he had done. But these people apparently had no sense of self-preservation, and they wanted him to be part of something.

And _he _wanted to be part of it, too.

It was terrifying.

Because wanting something made you vulnerable, and Bruce wasn't vulnerable. He couldn't afford to be. He needed control and distance. Only that was safe. Admitting how lonely he was, how badly he wanted, _needed _their friendship...Bruce knew he shouldn't do it.

But he _wanted _their friendship, wanted something solid, wanted to believe that simple human interaction beyond 'that'll be $5.69' and 'excuse me' could be safe, even as his mind screamed at him that it was impossible.

When Tony asked him to stay at the Tower for a few days, Bruce knew he should say no. Understood it, logically, like he understood the laws of physics, of science, of nature.

He wanted to say yes, though. Because he wouldn't admit he was lonely, didn't want to, maybe even _couldn't_...but denying it?

Bruce couldn't lie to himself. No matter how hard he tried (and damn, did he try).

He wanted to say 'yes.' And so he did.

* * *

Bruce was lonely, even though he wasn't alone.

'A few days' at the Tower turned quickly into several months, and Bruce settled down into the closest thing he'd had to a normal life in over five years. Between SHIELD's protection and Tony's not-insignificant political sway, Bruce found himself free of the shadows that had been dogging his steps since the accident.

He took his newfound freedom and ran with it—though not far (he could never run far enough, anyway). He worked mostly in the lab that Tony had designed for him, presented his research at the occasional conference (heavily supervised, of course), and spent a fair amount of time engaging in superhero-type things, saving civilians and smashing the bad guys. This last item astounded him—Bruce had never thought the Other Guy could be anything but a menace, but here was evidence to the contrary. Good evidence, too.

He spent his free time with the others, trying to learn how to be a normal, functional member of society again. For the most part, this entailed catching up on half a decade's worth of movies, playing the latest video games (mostly losing; Clint and Natasha were absurdly good at Xbox), and trying to teach Steve and Thor the finer points of yoga.

Surprisingly (or not, depending on how you looked at it) Bruce and Tony really hit it off. After bonding over science for awhile, it got to the point that every time Tony got bored (two or three times a day, generally), he'd wander down to Bruce's lab and would usually coerce the physicist into doing something stupid, dangerous, or absurdly fun. Usually, it was some combination of the three.

But Bruce wasn't ready to let any of them in, and so he held back. He made no promises that he'd stick around, he put down no roots (at least, none that he saw). Every day, he considered leaving.

Around him, the others formed new friendships, grew closer, and living in the glow of it was almost as good as having the real thing, the whole thing, for himself. And it was satisfying enough for a man who'd been completely starved of human contact for more than five years. At least, it was satisfying at first.

But like a slave who had gotten a taste of freedom, that one taste wasn't enough, and three months after taking up residence in Manhattan, Bruce was still deeply, intensely lonely.

And he knew it was all _him_, that he was still being standoffish, even as it looked like he was blending into the new family. He knew it was a 'simple' matter of trust. If he could _just_ trust that the metaphorical rug wasn't going to be ripped from under his feet the second he stepped upon it, if he could trust that the offer of friendship his new team had extended was genuine, yes, but more importantly, _permanent_...then he could let his guard down.

But he couldn't do that, not yet, not after he'd already lost so much. So he watched, and wanted, and was lonely.

* * *

Bruce wasn't lonely anymore.

It happened suddenly, at least, it seemed that way in retrospect.

At the end of November, Bruce told Tony that he was thinking of heading back to India. After all, he'd been in Manhattan for six months, and staying in one place for too long tended to make him nervous.

Tony pointed out the obvious flaw in Bruce's logic. "What's there to be nervous about? SHIELD's got Ross by the balls, I bribed the shit out of everyone who knows you're here. You're safe, Banner. Besides," and he grinned, "What would I do without my favorite lab partner? We're right in the middle of that project, you can't just hang me out to dry."

Which was true, Bruce realized. That would be rude. He considered telling Tony that he'd finish the project and _then_ leave, but then he remembered he'd promised to see the Nutcracker with Natasha in two weeks, and there was an exhibit coming to the MoMA in January that he'd told Steve he'd go to...and if he _did _leave, God only knew what kind of crap could go down that might require a superhero response team.

The problem with just up and leaving was...he'd made connections. He'd made a lot of them. He'd made promises, he'd put down roots, he had obligations, he had become woven into the fabric of this bizarre team-family, and now he couldn't just neatly extract himself. If he left, if he tried to excise himself, he'd leave a hole.

The realization was momentarily frightening, but that was overshadowed by the rush of warmth that filled him when he realized that, at some point, he'd become part of something. At some point, he'd unconsciously begun to trust them, had begun to let them in, and they'd rushed into the empty spaces inside of him like air filling a vacuum. And he hadn't realized how empty he was until those spaces were filled.

Tony, who'd become concerned by Bruce's long silence, prodded, "Are you okay?"

Shaken from his reverie, Bruce answered slowly, "What? Yeah...I'm fine. And you're right. I'm being ridiculous."

"So you're staying?"

"Yeah. Yeah, definitely."

And when Tony clapped him on the shoulder and started chattering about Pepper's expansive (and expensive) plans for Christmas, Bruce let the billionaire's over-excited words wash over him, too awed by his revelation to do anything more.

Later, as he looked up Nutcracker ticket prices (he'd decided the whole team should go), Bruce decided that, maybe, the things you never expected to be given—and never thought you could accept—are the things you really need.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews are the light of my life. Boy, I wish I was kidding...


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